


Celestial

by Lothiriel84



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Fallen Angels, Friendship/Love, Gen, I Don't Even Know, M/M, Redemption
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-05-18 12:32:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19334596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lothiriel84/pseuds/Lothiriel84
Summary: I'll dissolve when you laugh,when your words cut me in half,in a distant holograph -Celestial.





	Celestial

_Saudade_ , that’s how some of the humans will come to describe it, much later on – longing for something that will never return.

Love. Warmth. The beauty of creation. It’s all but a hollow ache inside his chest, like he’s sitting alone at the bottom of a well, the entire universe dimmed to a pale reflection of its former self.

Angels are beings of light. Stripped of their very essence, fallen angels lurk in a world of shadows, dull shades of grey bleeding into one another.

Crawling his way through the Garden he pauses, just for a moment, to look up at the stars. They feel so cold and distant now – and if snakes could weep, that’s what he would be doing right now.

 

“I gave it away,” the Angel says plaintively, and for the first time since his Fall, he would swear he can feel an echo of – Something, buried somewhere deep inside.

The icy greyness recedes just a little, and when the Angel titters at his suggestion, he fancies he catches a flicker of cerulean about his eyes – like the memory of a memory, of what the sky looked like when he glanced down from Above.

It’s gone before he blinks, but the warmth lingers way longer.

 

“You can’t kill kids,” he pleads, that unfamiliar Something sitting heavily upon his chest.

The first bolt of lightning is seared into the back of his eyelids, and if he weren’t a demon, he thinks he would sink down to his knees, and beg for those innocent lives to be spared.

 

His fingers twitch ever so slightly, the phantom pain piercing through his wrists way more real than it has any right to be.

“That’s gonna hurt,” he speaks quietly, as if to himself.

Crimson as the blood on the Son of man, the Something cries mutely in his chest.

 

He cannot remember candlelight to be that soft. Warm. Nothing like the searing agony under the soles of his feet.

Flames flicker around them after destruction hits, like liquid gold amidst the wreckage.

He prises the bag from the dead man’s fingers, hands it over to the only friend he’s ever known.

(Tries as hard as he can to ignore the fact that he can actually feel the answering wave of Love, in a way no demon is supposed to.)

 

“...or I’ll never talk to you again.”

The Something in his chest flares up like fire in a bookshop, and he pulls with all his might, until time grinds achingly to a sudden halt.

He can see Aziraphale now, as he never could before.

They both take Adam by the hand, and they stand as one, facing whatever comes next.

 

They’re sitting in the garden – only there’s no forbidden tree here, and no flaming sword in sight.

This patch looks more verdant than Eden ever did to him; he expects the bright green light to fade as soon as they swap back, but he can’t honestly say he minds.

They faced the combined wrath of Heaven and Hell, and came out of it unscathed. He can take an eternity of looking at the world through a demon’s eyes, so long as he gets to share it with his Best Friend.

He blinks once, twice, and while the vibrancy of everything recedes a little, it doesn’t fade completely.

“Time to leave the garden,” he says, and the light of the sunset has never looked kinder before.

 

“You see that bright red star over there?” he points, right above their heads. “That’s one of mine.”

They’re huddled together on a blanket in a deserted field somewhere in the South Downs, the chill of the night air nothing to the warmth he feels inside.

“It’s beautiful,” Aziraphale murmurs under his breath. “What’s it called?”

“The humans call it Aldebaran. It means _the follower_.”

“How lovely.”

A soft hand curls around his, and he sighs contentedly. It’s beautiful, and warm, and he feels Loved.

His Fall is but a half-forgotten memory now.


End file.
